Hello, Good-bye

And Herb Dunstan didn’t want to be categorized—at least in that way. And he’d been very careful not to reveal that he had preferences in that direction. He lived the perfect advertising firm vice president life (with every hope of being president when his father kicked off): a trophy wife; two glowing, bright children—the requisite older boy and younger girl; a big house in the planned community of Colombia, located half way between Baltimore and the nation’s capital; a Lexus SUV for her and Mercedes sedan for him; a floppy dog of indeterminate breeding; and one and a half cats. (No one was really sure that their family could lay full claim to the roving tom, Luther.)

But Luther wasn’t the only roving tom in the Dunstan family. Herb was a cruiser, and he had done most of his cruising while out of town on business trips. But there hadn’t been a business trip in some months now, and he found himself looking over the clientele of the downstairs bar at the Mount Vernon with more speculation and anticipation than usual.

The ham and rye sandwich was history and the ash tray in front of him at the bar was four butts deep when his attention was arrested by the inviting visage of a young man entering the bar and ordering up a beer.

He was Hispanic and carried himself with confidence. A little on the thin side, at least through the hips, but with a pretty deep chest and strong thighs. He was in well-pressed jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. He looked like he worked with his hands, though, so Herb decided he had slicked himself up to come into the Mount Vernon. All alone and taking a good look around him at the pickings. His eyes met Herb’s and he smiled. Herb smiled back and the young man was beside him at the bar.